A Story Retold Once More
by Shadowxwolf
Summary: Christine is a writer who has dreamed of her own Phantom script ever since she found her name was the same as Mme. Daae's. But maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all, when she discovers alarming parallels between her life and Leroux's world. Original!
1. Let The Dream Begin

**Chapter 1: Let The Dream Begin**

Christine sighed and sat down at her desk, staring at the blank computer screen in front of her. She had to fill it with words, but her mind was less filled than the page. How the Hell should she begin?

The scriptwriter's last work, _Faux Chocolat_, had been a raving success in London, winning the approval of every theatre critic in the city that had come to see it on opening night. But that alone wouldn't pay the bills, and she couldn't live on the royalties of one play forever. Besides, there was a much greater opportunity in front of Christine now, a play she had dreamed of writing ever since she had seen the theatre production and learned she had the same name as the leading lady.

A fairly new and unmarred copy of The Phantom of the Opera lay nearby on the desk, its front cover curving upwards ever so slightly from the dog-eared pages. One of the best novels of all time, admittedly one that had no idea which genre to belong to, transformed into the greatest ever musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber and into an even better film after that; Gerard Butler still set Christine's heart melting during Point Of No Return and Music Of The Night, despite having lost count of how many times she had watched it. She sighed again. Those ideas were staying stubbornly in her subconscious.

There had been other adaptations, based primarily on the novel. Christine had seen the 1990 version, and wasn't at all impressed by it. This would be her chance to put things right, and make an adaptation of a great tragic romance, the best adaptation she could. Thoughts whirred lazily inside her mind before a picture began to emerge of the scene before her. Christine waited for a moment or two for her mind's eyes to focus, and began to type with a cool detachment, watching the play unfold before her. Watching and writing stage directions were two different things, and often she had to pause the action in her brain and wait for her fingers flashing across the keyboard to catch up.

* * *

_The stage is completely dark; through the gloom, cries of fear are heard, then voices calling for assistance. The stage remains dark as the voices fade and there is a whispering of 'Opera Ghost'. This fades away too as the stage lights brighten jovially, revealing a large congregation of opera house employees, from stagehands to ballet dancers, standing with glasses of wine. Joyful party music is heard. There is a table laden with drinks and food, and everyone appears to be happy. _**Poligny** _and _**Debienne**_ are behind the table, talking and drinking with _**Richard **_and _**Moncharmin**, _who face them__. In the forefront on stage left is _**Sorelli** _in best dress, with a piece of paper in her hands, rehearsing her speech for the retiring managers. A group of ballet students, dressed in white, enter from the left, looking shaken. They gather round _**Sorelli**, _clutching her skirts. _**Meg**_ is holding onto her arm. As _**Sorelli** _starts to speak, the lighting on the other guests subtly dims as a spotlight. _

**Sorelli:**

_(breaking off from her speech, surprised) _Why, what on earth is wrong with you, my dears?

**Meg:**

_(fearfully) _It is the Opera Ghost, mistress Sorelli, I have seen him, and his terrible death's head!

**Ballerina #1:**

You haven't seen him Meg, else we would have seen him too! (_distressed_)She hasn't seen him mistress Sorelli. She's just saying that because of what's happened!

**Sorelli:**

Well, what's happened?

**Meg:**

It's Joseph Buchet – the scene-shifters just found him hanging in one of the cellars!

**Ballerina #2:**

And went they went for help, when they came back, the rope had gone!

_The ballerinas start to talk amongst themselves about the Opera Ghost, arguing about who has seen him and who hasn't_

**Sorelli:**

_(trying to calm them)_ Now, now, my dears, I'm sure it was just an accident. And here you are all safe, for the Opera Ghost does not like to come among people.

_The ballet students, with relief but still huddled closely together, merge into the crowd as _**Sorrelli**_ shoos them away, and _**Sorelli** _continues to practice her speech. She marks the paper she's holding with a pen to correct her script. After a few moments, _**Poligny**_ rises and taps a glass with a spoon. All chatter dies down as everyone present turns to the managers._

**Poligny:**

Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for being present tonight. I assure you that it is with great reluctance that I and my esteemed partner Monsieur Debienne are to retire from management of the opera house. May I now introduce to you the new managers, Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin!

_Polite applause. A face appears in a dark corner of stage right, and lingers for only a second. A few of the ballet students see him, and point, shocked. But when the audience realises something is going on, _**Erik **_has disappeared._

**Meg:**

The Opera Ghost! The Opera Ghost! He is here! S_he points with the other ballet students to where _**Erik** _has just vanished. Everyone swings to face the corner and a spotlight sweeps into the corner to highlight where everyone is looking._

**Debienne: **

_(with an air of command) _Don't panic, anyone! It was nothing, a trick of the light. Everyone, sit down!

_A shadow appears across the top half of the stage from right to left as _**Erik** _exits by paths unknown. The crowd, with the ballerinas and _**Sorelli**, _exit hurriedly, frightened, away from the corner, now dark again, leaving the old and new managers onstage. _**Debienne**_ sits, wiping his brow with a handkerchief._

**Richard:**

What was that all about?

**Debienne:**

_(tiredly) _I'm afraid, messieurs, that there is something about this opera house we have not told you. . . _(__in hushed tones) _this opera is haunted

**Richard:**

Most operas claim a phantom or two. What would the opera be without a ghost? _(laughs)_

**Debienne:**

You mistake me, monsieur; this Ghost s real. His voice can be heard in rooms even though nobody sees him and the room is well lit! He is everywhere!

**Moncharmin: **

_(bemused, slightly annoyed)_ The man was speaking through the walls of the next room, that's all.

**Poligny:**

No, people have checked. And sometimes there are accidents that happen with no explanation to them. Though these do not happen when we follow his orders.

**Richard:**

And how does this ghost give orders might I ask?

**Poligny:**

He wrote commands in the memorandum book, and sometimes there appear notes on the desk, which he writes to comment on anything he wishes. Come and see for yourselves

**Poligny** _leads the new managers to an office at the back of the stage, on the left, raised up slightly on three steps, up to now in darkness. As he turns the door, light rises in the office as it fades on the party scene. Inside there is a large desk, a glass cabinet of books, and a small table with a decanter of amber liquid. _**Poligny**_ walks over to the book cabinet and pulls out the memorandum book, handing it to _**Richard. Debienne **_takes pours a glass from the decanter and offers one to _**Moncharmin **_while his partener reads from the book. _**Moncharmin **_declines._

**Richard:**

_(reading)_ The managers, in every month, must make a payment of 20,000 francs a month, which he shall give to the Opera Ghost. The payment must not be delayed for more than a fortnight. _(__pause) _Is this all? Does he not want anything else? _(_**Poligny** _points to the memorandum book, indicating that _Richard _keep reading) _Box Five on the grand tier shall be placed at the disposal of the Opera Ghost for every performance. (_with rising indignation) _What is this? A kind of -

* * *

Christine heard a rough whine beside her, and looked round to see Daroga, her Alsatian, looking at her with the begging look dogs are famous for. He wagged his tail meekly, his head resting on his paws, the better to make use of his employment of puppy eyes. The writer checked her watch. A quarter-to eleven.

'I suppose you want me to take you out, then?' she asked the dog. He whined again and wagged a little bit harder. She sighed, turning back to the computer screen for an instant. The cursor blinked slowly at her. Her mind had returned to its former blank state. 'All right then; you've put me out of my frame of mind anyway. Come on.' Daroga barked happily, wagging his tail, oblivious to Christine's attempts at silencing him. She had been allowed to keep the dog in her apartment on the condition that he made no noise. This, of course, was only after he had chased away a burglar that had been trying to sneak in through the second floor window at the back of the house.

Christine lived in a second floor apartment in a classier part of London, in a Victorian townhouse facing Hyde Park. Daroga strained at his leash when she locked the front door, impervious to his mistress's commands of 'wait'. She looked up at the sky as she placed the key in her pocket, and sighed again. One problem with London was the starless night sky, drowned as it was by streetlights. At least the Park was dark.

'Come on then,' she said to Daroga. The pair set off to the corner of the street where it was safer to cross. The dog was straining at his leash and practically dragged Christine over when he caught the scent of another dog. 'Heel!' she snapped. Daroga immediately fell into line beside his mistress as they waited for a break in traffic. Suddenly Daroga caught the scent of something else and shot off before Christine knew what was happening. The leash twisted round behind her legs, pulling her over. She swore, grimacing as she felt her grazed knee.

'Daroga! Daroga, come back!' she hollered, racing after him. The Alsatian shot along the pavement, earning disapproving stares from late night strollers. Nobody tried to stop him, of course. Daroga loped out into the road. A large black Mercedes was coming towards him, its headlights stunning the dog as he was momentarily blinded. They were going to collide. Christine wasn't even aware she was shouting as she leapt to try and catch her dog before he got run over.

The black Mercedes halted about five inches from where Christine was lying over her confused dog, wincing at the coming impact. She opened one eye when it didn't come, and read the number plate: L0666 CIP. The driver had got out and was shouting and raving about people not being able to control their dogs. Christine rose, holding Daroga by his thick leather collar and making silent promises to kill him later.

'I'm so sorry, he's not usually like this, there must be a bitch in heat somewhere. I'm so sorry,' she apologised over and over.

'Well, as long as neither of you are hurt,' the driver replied with a slight East London accent.

'What's going on, why have we stopped?' came a new voice, from the back of the car. The owner got out to better see what is happening. He was dark haired and delicately handsome, his eyes shadowed but gleaming intelligently out at the woman standing in the headlights of the Mercedes.

'Nothing, sir,' replied the driver, 'A dog just ran in front of the car.' The man nodded and leaned back in, saying something quickly in French. At least, Christine heard the word 'chien' and assumed it was French. She led Daroga back onto the pavement, cursing him under her breath as she felt the blood slowly dripping down her shin. The dog gazed innocently back at her, his tongue lolling from the exercise. By now the driver shifted the car into gear and the man had got back into the car. Their eyes locked for a second before the Mercedes drove off.

'Come on, dog, people are starting to stare,' she muttered, dragging him into Hyde Park.

* * *

I was bored of humour. There's your explanation for this. The next chapters will be better than this one; it didn't make much sense, did it? i just needed to get it out of my head, and attempt to write a version of Phantom that stuck to the book more. Ciao! By the way, this is an updated version of this chapter because I decided this story needed rennovating

Shadowxwolf


	2. But We Have No Cast!

**Chapter 2: But We Have No Cast!**

'Please Felix, just give it a chance!' Christine was most insistent, following the theatre's manager through the whole of the backstage as he inspected the workings of everybody. He still said no, even after she had asked and pleaded fifteen times at least. So much for persistence pays off. 'Come on, Felix! Look, I know the script's not finished -'

'Damn right it's not!' Felix Richards cut across her, stopping her in her tracks. 'Christine, look: you're good, one of the best. Hell, Faux Chocolat is brilliant, the most money this place has made in years. But you are talking about putting on a production of Phantom, which, in my opinion, was only ever successfully accomplished by Andrew Lloyd Webber. And he's what we're competing with. I've read the book – at your insistence, I might add – and it wasn't even a clear romance. The answer's no. And that's final!' he finished as she tried to cut in again. He ran a hand through his greying hair. 'I'm sorry, but it's not viable, Christine.'

_Damn._ But like this meant she was giving up. 'Just think about it for five minutes, Felix, please,' she begged, stepping in front of him. She had worked on this for weeks now, and although only the roughest of rough drafts was finished, and was far too long, the script once polished slightly, ok, a lot, would be dazzling.

'No, you'll only try and trick me into changing my mind.'

'That's my job – I have the visions, and make you come along with me,' she retorted. 'Remember what you said when I first brought you _Chocolat,_ you said nobody would be interested. And now look! The script needs polishing, but you know that's how I work! Please.' Christine looked imploringly at her employer, daring him to turn her down. Felix had to hand it to her, those green eyes of hers came from the devil for persuasion.

'I still don't know – it's the musical everyone goes and sees,' he said. True, not everyone liked musicals, his own sister hated opera when everybody sang over each other – unintelligible, she said. Christine was going to speak again though, so he prepared himself for the onslaught.

'Just think,' she began, her face lighting up with the fervour she could only have while talking about a new business prospect. 'Hundreds of diehard fans will want to see this, plus everyone who loves my stuff. We could invite Andrew Lloyd Webber to Opening Night to see what he thinks of it, and spread the rumour that he thinks it's good enough to go and see, thereby all the Webber fans come too.'

'You should have gone into marketing,' Felix observed dryly. 'And don't try the puppy-dog look, it doesn't work on you.' Christine dropped the expression with an exasperated sigh, knowing perfectly well that she couldn't look innocent.

'Will you just consider it?'

Felix Richards sighed, and the young writer could see the cogs turning in his brain. She waited with baited breath for the no; but finally the manager's shoulders slumped and he muttered to himself 'Why does this always happen?'

'I'm free next Thursday,' he said to Christine. 'Be there with a finished script, or there'll be no play.' She squealed and hugged him tightly, and he accepted it like a tolerating father.

'You won't regret this, Felix!' He certainly hoped not.

Later that night, as Christine sat in front of her laptop screen, she dialled the number of a college friend. It was a guy who answered though.

'Um, hi, this is Christine, is Meg there please?' she asked as politely as possible. Who was this? She was pretty sure Meg hadn't had a sex change in the two weeks since she'd last heard from her.

There was the sound of the phone changing hands.

'Yo, Chrissy, what's up?' Meg answered brightly.

'I told you never to call me that,' Christine grumbled. 'Who was that?' guessing since she was still hearing smooching sounds in the background and Meg's stifled giggling. Actresses, she thought with amusement. Or maybe it was just Meg.

'Just some guy I've been going out with. So, what's up?' Christine rolled her eyes and explained to her ex-roommate what she wanted. 'You want me to play Christine in your version of Phantom? Shouldn't I play Meg?' she teased.

'Meg doesn't sing. You can. You shouldn't waste your voice on a minor role,' Christine replied flatteringly.

'I don't know, Chris, I live so far away from the theatre.'

'Come stay with me.' Christine could hear the indecision permeating the phone's mouthpiece, so tried a different tactic. 'You'll get to kiss the guy who plays Erik, and I bet Raoul's gonna be pretty fit too. At least come and audition.'

'Erik, you say?' Christine could almost hear her friend's eyebrow raising. 'OK, you've got a deal. I'll be there. When is it?'

'Thursday.'

'See you there! Ciao bella!'

Christine put the phone down with a shake of her head and snuggled down into her work bean-bag to review the first scene between Raoul and Christine. The cascade of brown locks fell down over her shoulder as she cocked her head with infuriation at the screen. It was difficult to get the mood right and might have to be cut down a lot in the final version. For now, it would stay as it was.

She always hated writing Raoul's lines, the desire to just hang the plotline and poison him or get him to say 'I'm an idiot, go with Erik' was always itching at the tip of her fingers.

* * *

**Christine**_ bows. The managers, in the front boxes of the theatre, throw pink roses at her feet. A mysterious shadow, barely perceptible, passes over the spotlights, right to left. Seeing _**Erik**_, a frightened look crosses her face and she backs away from the front of centre stage, and faints. A few stagehands, entering from both sides, crowd round, first applauding, then muttering as _**Christine**_ falls down. The_ **Doctor**_ and _**Raoul** _push through them. They kneel next to _**Christine**

**Raoul:**

Don't you think, doctor, that these gentlemen should clear the room?

**Doctor:**

Yes quite right. _(to the crowd) _You there, give this lady some space! _(the crowd disperse, gossiping. The light is focused on _**Raoul**, **Christine**, _and the_ **Doctor**_, so is not noticed_

**Christine:**

_(waking up) _Monsieur, who are you? I do not know you, do I?

**Raoul:**

Do you not remember me? Raoul de Chagny? I was the little boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf! My governess gave me a great telling-off.

**Christine:**

_(laughing weakly) _I'm sorry, monsieur, no, I do not recognise you.

**Raoul:**

Well, madamemoiselle, since you are so pleased not to know me, might I request a private word?

**Christine:**

I'm sorry monsieur, maybe when I am better

**Doctor:**

I shall attend to you –

**Christine:**

Oh, no, I'm not that ill, I'm – I just need . . . to rest for a while.

**Doctor:**

Very well, madamemoiselle _(he beckons to _**Raou**l_ and both walk to front-stage, an aside) _She's not herself tonight – she's usually so gentle

_The_ **Doctor** _and_ **Raoul** _exit, and the lights dim everywhere except around _**Christine**,_ who is sitting at her dressing table. Suddenly, _**Christine** _looks up, and _**Erik **_speaks, his voice echoes through the theatre, though he remains unseen_

**Erik:**

You did well tonight, Christine. The whole of Paris applauds you.

**Christine:**

Thank you, Master, for all you have done for me. This could not have happened without you.

**Erik:**

The voice they heard is yours alone, Christine, but you are mine. Do not forget that.

**Christine:**

I won't, Angel, I promise.

**Erik:**

Who was the young man at your side tonight?

**Christine:**

Raoul de Chagny

**Erik:**

(_deceptively gentle)_ Why did you pretend you didn't know who he was, Christine?

**Christine:**

I – I had fainted, Master. I didn't know where I was.

**Erik:**

_(angrily)_ Do not lie to me! You knew him. And if he were a mere friend, Christine, you would treat him as any other, and not avoid him as you do. Yet you do not. Do not think you can blind me to the truth with such feeble guises!

**Christine:**

That will do! I go to my father's grave tomorrow to pray, and I shall ask Monsieur Raoul de Chagny to go with me.

**Erik:**

_(regaining his composure) _Do as you please then, but remember that I am wherever you are, Christine, and if you are still worthy and have not lied to me, I will play Resurrection of Lazarus on your father's violin at your father's tomb on the stroke of midnight.

_Lights fade as Christine puts her head in her hands _

* * *

Christine liked the way the scene flowed, and how it stayed close to the original book. Hardly a word out of place, and only a few lines summarised, for length reasons. Still, overall, the writer thought she would probably be shouted at by Felix for making it too long. Oh well, such was the life of a script-writer in theatre.

Thursday came, and it saw Christine bored out of her wits as crap actor after crap actor came through the theatre doors. The minor characters were cast first, with people filling the roll of Madame Giry, Meg, and the theatre managers in a mere matter of hours. Raoul's part was next, because she had insisted to leave the parts of Christine and Erik open until after lunch. There must have been ten hopefuls already, and none were good enough.

'I liked number three,' Felix commented as she yawned.

'Nah, not foppish enough for Raoul,' Christine replied.

'Define fop, so I know what I'm looking for,' the manager replied tiredly, just as bored and fed up as his writer.

'I don' t have my dictionary on me today, sorry Felix. To sum up, a fop is a man who acts like he's gay, but isn't. Raoul is possibly the biggest fop in literature. Apart from Mr Collins in Pride and Prejudice.'

'And why do you want somebody like that?'

'Because it make's Erik's story all the more tragic – Christine leaves the tortured musical genius who loves her more than life itself for a – well, a fop. I want audiences to wonder what the hell Christine was thinking,' Christine explained.

'I shouldn't have asked,' Felix muttered, knowing too well Christine's sympathies for antagonists. It was one of the main characteristics of her plays. 'Next!'

The next hopeful sauntered in wearing a short denim jacket and jeans. His slightly long brown hair curled to his shoulders, his face was finely featured and boyish looking, with light hazel eyes and a smirk continuously lifting the corners of his mouth.

'Oh no,' Christine whispered, 'Oh dear God no.'

'What's your name?' Felix asked, taking charge.

'I'm Robert Simmons, sir. Christine,' he nodded in her direction. She stared with shock and a slight mix of horror on her face as this Robert recited his lines using the newly appointed Meg as Christine. The writer tried in vain to look everywhere but the stage as Richard performed to a sickeningly perfect degree, nneding only to glance at his photocopied script occasionally.

'So how was that?' Robert asked, smiling haughtily.

'We'll let you know in a little while,' Felix replied. He turned to his writer, and the disgruntled look on her face. 'Why don't you like him? I thought he was perfect.'

'He is perfect, and a good actor' Christine grumbled, 'but I don't want to work with him. He's a modern day Raoul, and I wish I'd never dated him.'

Unfortunately, none of the other hopefuls were at the same standard of foppish that Robert was, so he got the part. Felix was left to go and tell him while Christine messed around on stage, refining the script even more. It was a constant process, like water eroding a riverbed. A sudden voice from behind made her jump.

'Would you be Christine Drew?' a man asked. She spun round to see a vaguely familiar figure leaning against the wall. It was the man whose car had almost ran over her dog.

'Yes,' she said. He looked hotter in daylight than he had under streetlamps, and it was difficult to remember that he had almost killed her. His smouldering eyes, green and slightly sinister, narrowed.

'Writer of the play _Faux Chocolat_?'

'Yes.'

'Owner of a dog that likes to run out in front of cars?'

She swelled indignantly. 'Daroga's an idiot. I always said he wouldn't get sense knocked into him before he was knocked over.' Christine looked suspiciously at the man standing before her. He was tall, about 6'4'', with almost black hair that was just long enough to draw back into a ponytail, if he had wanted. There was some intensity about them that was very attractive and he looked like he worked out, at least from what Christine could see from under his long black coat. He looked like a policeman, and quickly Christine ran through everything she had done in the last two weeks, trying to remember something illegal.

'Daroga? Is that German?' he asked, drawing the writer's attention back to what he was saying. His voice was like music though, deep and fluid and powerful. Get a grip, Christine, she told herself. He's not Erik.

'Persian,' she replied, 'for 'chief of police'.'

'Speaking of which, let me introduce myself. I'm Erik, Erik Johnson, of the Metropolitan police.' He held out a hand and she shook it warily. So much for him not being Erik then.

'Whatever it is, I didn't do it,' she stated.

'A guilty conscience, eh?' he teased lightly. 'Don't worry though, I'm not a detective, and I'm not on duty. I actually came here to apologise for the other night. We may have been a bit brusque with you. Are you all right?'

The sincerity in Erik's voice took Christine back for a moment, despite the fact that it had happened more than a fortnight ago. She smiled and said there was nothing to worry about.

'So, what are you doing at the moment?' Erik asked, coming even closer.

'Um, writing, actually,' she replied, quickly typing something, anything, to get free of those smouldering eyes. They were drawing her in and she had work to do.

'Didn't look like it. You were flitting around the stage like you were trying to act all the parts.'

'I was,' Christine retorted hotly. 'Whenever I get writer's block, I act out the parts of the characters in my head. Sometimes it helps.' She shrugged, a sudden thought entering her head. 'Can you sing?' she asked.

'What?' he looked politely confused, and his eyebrows wrinkled in the strangest way. . .Christine brought herself back before she let her mind wander too far.

'Can you sing?' she repeated.

'Not for all the counterfeit diamonds in Africa.'

'Shame. I happen to have most of the counterfeit diamonds in Africa. That was a joke, by the way,' she added. He asked her to explain, but Christine kept tight-lipped, trying to hide a smile. _Because you would be a perfect Phantom_, she said in her mind.

There was silence between them for a while, and Christine took her mind of the extremely distracting male presence behind her by listening to the stagehands and sceneshifters in the back of the theatre.

'Do you fancy grabbing a coffee or something after you're finished here?' Erik blurted suddenly. Like it was a hard decision.

'Yeah, sure,' Christine replied. 'Only, auditions could take a while, so I don't know what time I'll be finished. You could wait if you want,' she finished doubtfully. Erik's pager suddenly beeped. Or Not.

'Sorry, I'll have to go, duty calls,' he said with an apologetic smile. 'Maybe some other time?'

'Sure,' Christine said, masking her disappointment. She watched Erik walk out of the hall and sighed in annoyance. Why was it whenever there was someone she fancied, work or relationships got in the way? 'What time?' she called after him, but he only turned, smiling mysteriously, and said

'I'll find you.' Christine rolled her eyes. Men.

There was a scream from behind the stage somewhere, and Christine rushed through, wondering what the Hell was going on.

'What happened?' she asked.

'We don't know,' two makeup artists replied. 'People are saying someone's dead!' Christine didn't wait for an answer, but tore back across the stage, jumped down and hurtled out of the back door, looking every which way for Erik. He was police. Someone was dead.

She caught up with him walking out of the theatre door.

'Whoa, did you miss me that much?' he joked. Chrisitne shook her head, trying to get her breath back.

'No, I mean yes, but,' she panted, 'there was a scream, an accident. They're saying someone's dead!'

* * *

This is the second chapter, ladies and gents. It's an updated version, like the whole story will be once I'm finished. Exams are drawing to a close now, so I now have time to write, as opposed to before, when I was doing it anyway...Yeah, so...reviews please!


	3. Abandon Thought

**

* * *

**

Chapter 3: Abandon Thought

There was a crowd gathering by the time Christine led Erik back into the theatre

There was a crowd gathering by the time Christine led Erik back into the theatre. Word travelled fast, probably helped by the scream. A makeup artist, Jadine, took the two, traumatised as she was, to a landing bay at the back of the main theatre. The man lay face down beside a stack of boxes, sprawled as if he had died standing up, and had just fallen down. There was no blood, just the man lying on the floor.

'I know him,' Christine whispered fearfully.

'What?' Erik asked sharply.

'Joe, Joe Buchannan. He's a supplier,' she said in a stunned voice.

'Go and sit outside,' he said gently, steering her away, 'you don't need to see this.' Everyone else followed her out, herded like numb sheep by the cool authority figure.

Erik took charge immediately, ordering everybody not to touch the body, and asking anybody who already had to come forward, so they could be omitted from any investigation there might be. It could be that everyone was in shock, but his orders were followed to the letter. Then he pulled out a phone and dialled 999.

'Wait,' Christine asked, 'aren't you police?'

'I'm an interpreter, not with homicide,' he explained shortly. 'I'll have to take your statement later though,' he said with a wink. Christine blushed; most unlike her.

The first officers to arrive were accompanied by a flustered looking man speaking French. The other officers looked pretty strained as well, from what Christine could tell. She was watching out for them at the front of the theatre with Erik, because everything inside was hectic, and she couldn't be bothered with it. The interpreter sighed when the first flashing cars pulled up.

'Sorry, I'll have to go,' he apologised, going over to the Frenchman. She realised this must have been the guy in the car with him two weeks ago, and instantly she was interested. He led the officers to the scene, where they congratulated him on his swift control. He accepted with smiles and mutters of 'only doing duty'. Christine watched him carefully, noticing how he disliked being the centre of attention, a bit like her, really. She suspected the French guy was a visiting police officer, from the way Erik led him around and explained the different parts of an investigation to him. Somebody else might not notice something so slight, but, being a writer, Christine had spent more time than usual watching people. And, as usual, it gave her ideas for plotlines. God she needed a boyfriend.

Felix came stomping up. 'This is a disaster!' he cried. 'We'll be set back weeks if there's an investigation. And we haven't even finished the auditions yet!' his face was turning scarlet, and Christine thought it safer to do something about it.

'Relax, you know how Joe used to smoke. He probably had a heart attack or something. There won't be an investigation,' she said calmly, wondering what would happen if there was. She went back to looking at Erik. Was it a coincidence that a guy called Erik had stumbled in on her life? Probably. But as long as he didn't turn into a psychopathic killer with a Punjab, Christine didn't really care. He was _very_ good looking. Was it just her imagination, or did he glance at her every so often?

'Christine! Are you listening?' Felix broke through her musings to announce the arrival of the Phantom and Christine hopefuls. Great. With one final glance in Erik's direction, she led them through to a prop-store, where the auditions were now being held. Open auditions were the most tiring, since it meant that anyone could walk in off the street and try out, but both Felix and Christine agreed that it was better to have an unknown play Erik.

Their Phantom had been chosen, so all that remained was to choose the Christine. The actresses had two scenes to do, one showing how she responded to Raoul and Erik, the other showing how well she could act without words. It was the Puerros scene. There had been no speaking in this scene in the book, and Christine had kept it that way.

* * *

_The stage is lit with cold blue lighting, with a backdrop of gravestones. A few are onstage to give the audience a feeling of depth. The sound of wind is heard, so faint the audience must strain to hear it. _**Christine**_ enters from the left. There is an iron gate at the far right of the stage, set at a forty-five degree angle to the audience. She opens it wit a creakand walks through up some shallow steps, and the front-stage dims as the back of the stage is lit by light, slightly greener than the forestage, to reveal Daaé's grave, an altar like sarcophagus._ **Christine**_ kneels before it and prays. Strokes of midnight are heard, and the wind that could faintly be heard now stops. At the twelfth stroke, a single violin begins to play, softly at first, then louder. _**Christine**_ raises her head slowly and spreads out her arms as though in ecstasy. The music slowly fades into the background, and _**Christine**_ rises and leaves. _**Raoul**_ enters from the right and listens at the gate, staring at the altar. A breathy chuckle rattles through the pile of skulls behind it, and one skull breaks away and rolls down the steps to _**Raoul's** _feet. The lights have now dimmed, apart from those centring on _**Christine**_ as she prays. _**Raoul**_ watches the skull's progress then looks up to see a shadow pass through the gate. I knocks him over. He cries out and follows the shadow frantically, but stops, confused, in the middle of the stage. The shadow has disappeared. _**Erik**_ suddenly rears up from behind a tombstone and catches_ **Raoul**_ round the neck._ **Raoul**_ is on wires which lift him, making it seem like _**Erik**_ possesses inhuman strength. The breathy chuckle is heard again over _**Raoul's**_ gasps, and the stage plunges into black. _

* * *

It was a good dramatic scene, or so Christine thought. Of course, considering she wrote it, she didn't think she was allowed to comment. The writer's mind was full of everything that had happened in the last two days: Joe's death, Meg getting the part of Christine, and the mysterious interpreter called Erik who had sort of almost asked her out. Then walked off with a Frenchman.

'I don't know, dad,' she said, pouring a bit more rum on the grave. 'What do you think?' Her father had been a sailor in the Royal Navy, a captain, no less, who had died in an engine fire trying to save his crew. He had always supported his daughter's love of writing. Christine often came to his headstone to think - and sometimes to give his spirit a secret measure of rum, so he wouldn't get too thirsty in the afterlife. Daroga sat panting beside her. She patted his head. 'Ah, well, come on, dog. And don't drink that all at once, you hear?' she told her father. 'God'll send me to Hell if he finds out.' She chuckled at the private joke. 'See you later, dad.'

Graveyards always made Christine feel weird. All those silent stones, representatives not of death, but of those left behind, always hushed her, made her tread carefully. Even Daroga seemed affected by them. He wasn't his usual bouncy self, and his ears flicked alertly every way.

'Hey there,' a familiar voice said from the left. Christine started violently and swore. Daroga growled. She looked around to see Erik trying and failing not to laugh, looking very handsome as he did so. She scowled at him.

'Are you stalking me?' was all she managed to say, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

He sobered up immediately, looking a little _too_ innocent. 'Of course not. Our lives just happen to be filled with amazing coincidences,' he said. Amazing was the word.

'Ok. But Jesus Christ, You scared the Hell out of me. You're like a ghost,' _or a Phantom_, she thought to herself, 'don't ever do that again.'

'It's no fun that way,' he teased. 'So what are you doing here?'

'Walking.'

'Ah.'

'You?' she asked, coming to sit next to him on the bench he was occupying. He showed her a sketch of the graveyard. He was good. At drawing. Christine stopped herself before she could imagine what else he was good at.

'They fascinate me,' he informed her. Great; Christine's would be boyfriend was morbid. 'And this is the famous Daroga?' he asked suddenly, turning his attention to the dog. Daroga's ears pricked at the sound of his name. His tail thumped softly as Erik reached forward to touch his shoulder. Christine was quite impressed by the way he knew to keep his hands in the dog's sight to make him trust him. So he was hot and smart? Always a good combination. Perhaps too good.

'He likes you,' she informed him. 'Usually he tries to kill strangers.'

'I like him. If he hadn't run in front of my car, I wouldn't have met you,' he replied, smirking slightly as he watched a blush creep up Christine's cheeks.

'You know, most people who meet me would say it was bad luck,' she said to hide her embarrassment. A very pleasant tingle had just wound up her spine. She was now very aware of Erik sliding slowly along the bench in her direction; coming a little too close for perfect comfort.

'Guess what?' Erik asked. Very close now. Too close.

'What?'

He leant in and pressed his lips firmly but gently onto hers. Christine froze as heat flooded her face. Her heart had stopped for a second - she was sure of it. 'I don't believe them.' He drew away slightly, but not enough that Christine could fail to notice how green his eyes were. They were very pretty eyes. With an uneven hazel ring round the centre. Was there any indecision? No. Anyone else who tried that would probably have been punched in the face, but she leaned in and kissed Erik right back.

Erik's hand came up to caress her cheek as he drew his body closer to hers. They were cool and smooth against her flustered skin, which only grew redder as his slid those hands down her throat to languish around her collarbone. Each minute touch sent tingles spiking through Christine's limbs, shivering up and down her spine. And as the kiss deepened, became more urgent, she forgot everything about where she was, and was aware only of Erik's mouth moving with hers, and his long, elegant fingers which were now lingering on her waist. She explored him with her hands as well, running her fingers over his chest, the hard muscles of his abdomen and the ones rippling across his back. He was perfectly toned, but that was just from feeling through the thick black polo-neck he was wearing. Christine deftly ran her fingers down, with every intention of slipping them beneath that loathsome shirt, to feel the warmth of the flexing muscles beneath, even as he snaked his silken lips along her jugular, making her gasp with ecstasy.

His hand gripped hers as it brushed the heated flesh of his pelvis, strong and halting. He lingered for a second at her mouth and pulled away teasingly, smiling like a devil. Christine's breath still came heavily as she watched him warily. He was so beautiful, sitting there with his eyes locked on hers, tempting, teasing, inquisitive. Nobody had ever looked at Christine like that, with such cunning intelligence so clearly visible, heightened by the crooked smile playing around a mouth which tasted so good. His left hand gently stroked her cheek.

'I never had you pinned as a fast woman, Christine,' he murmured inches from her face. His breath was sweet and warm against her flaming cheeks.

'You never had me pinned,' she retorted coyly, slightly miffed that they were so close and so far apart it could have been miles.

'There's time yet. But I have to finish this first, I need the light.' He retreated to the other side of the bench and continued his sketch as though nothing had happened. Christine was affronted, and irritated with herself that she had so easily been drawn in by a man she had met properly less than a week ago, had nearly murdered her dog, and who she knew absolutely nothing about.

'Maybe I should leave then,' she said coolly.

'You're not going anywhere.'

'Watch me.' She rose, refusing to look at him, and began to walk away from the bench. In no time he was there behind, breathing steadily into the crook of her neck, arms snagged around her waist. He stood almost a head taller than her, something not easily managed, as Christine was almost 5'10''.

'I'm watching,' he whispered. Christine stood stoically where she was, trying to ignore the soft tickle of his dark hair against her quickly flushing face. 'See?' He said triumphantly, 'you're not going anywhere.'

'It would be easier if you let me go,' she replied icily.

'Well then, looks like I'll have to keep holding on to you, doesn't it?' he teased, smoothing the soft skin under Christine's shirt so that her stomach gave a panicky lurch.

Christine wondered why she had hung around. She was cold, hungry, and bored. Erik had steered her round and sat her back down on the bench, one hand held firmly about her waist as he continued to draw with the other. This relationship was not going well. Daroga was lying with his head resting on his forepaws, looking up at his mistress with such a stare of hopeless dejection that Christine couldn't help but feel guilty. Still, the way his fingers sketched over the drawing pad, deftly taking in the scenery and transferring it to paper was remarkable, and Christine found herself sliding along the bench to watch over Erik's shoulder as he worked. He looked up and smiled.

'That's better,' he said, stealing a quick kiss before returning to his work.

Daroga ruined the moment by whining. Erik looked up and sighed. 'I'm afraid the dog's right.'

'Yes, this is boring isn't it?' Christine said testily. She didn't like being held captive then ignored by men.

'Nope, I meant it's going to rain,' he replied. The sky had been miserable and grey all day, and, as if on cue, large, heavy drops plashed onto the pavement. A few at first, then in a torrential downpour. Daroga barked roughly as the people tried to escape the wet. There was a yew nearby which they sheltered under.

'Ugh, Daroga!' Christine complained as the dog, tongue lolling happily, shook himself dry on top of them. Erik was laughing. 'What?' she demanded when he stared at her.

'Oh, nothing,' Erik replied innocently. 'I just think you look lovely soaked to the skin.'

'Well that's great because I don't feel _lovely._ I feel sopping wet.'

He chuckled. Christine felt the tree trunk at her back, and Erik was getting closer. She couldn't escape. Oh well, it wasn't so bad. At least he wasn't horribly disfigured. He came and sat next to her, glancing out into the rain.

'Ugh, English weather, eh?' he said conversationally.

'Is your sketch OK?'

'It'll live.'

Christine shuddered, feeling the stickiness of wet clothes on her back. In one swift movement, Erik draped his own jacket round her shoulders and swept her up into another melting kiss. Christine wouldn't have been surprised if there was steam coming off her, but she didn't care. Erik was hot, and she was wrapped up in his arms. It wouldn't be so bad to wait the storm out here.

* * *

Kay, as of now, the rating on this goes up. This is the first fic like this I've ever done, and reviews are greatly appreciated!

Shadowxwolf


	4. Prying Pandora!

This will be the first scene like this that I've ever written, so don't expect anything fabulous. Even so, I hope it's good...please, leave a review in the little box (I've been watching Labyrinth a lot lately)

* * *

Chapter 3: Prying Pandora

**Christine**_ wakes and begins to explore the well lit bedroom. There is a four-poster bed, a wardrobe and wash stand, but nothing else. She moves to stage left and right to find a way out, but cannot. _**Erik **_enters carrying parcels, which he deposits lightly on the bed._

**Erik:**

Still in bed at this hour?

**Christine:**

Where am I? Why am here? Am I a prisoner?

**Erik:**

My dear Christine, you have nothing at all to fear from me.

**Christine:**

Then why do you wear a mask? Take it off if you are a gentleman and not a scoundrel!

**Erik:**

_(serenely) _You will never see my face, Christine. But look at the time! It is nearly two o'clock and you are not even dressed! The bathroom is just through there. Dress and then we may talk.

**Christine**_ walks offstage while _**Erik**_ sorts out the parcels on the bed. She returns, dressed, and _**Erik**_ takes her hand. She shrieks and withdraws her hand._

**Christine:**

You're as cold as ice!

**Erik:**

Come with me, Christine. I love you, though I will only say so when you will permit me, and the rest of our time will be devoted to music. Here _(leading her over to an organ) _This is my 'Don Juan Triumphant. I began on it twenty years ago, and will die the day I finish it.

**Christine:**

You mustn't wok on it often then. Will you play some of it for me?

**Erik:**

Never ask me that. Mozart will make you weep but my Don Juan burns. Let us sing something from Othello instead.

**Erik **_starts playing, but _**Christine**_, her face intent on his, suddenly rips off the mask. _**Erik**_ howls and spins round too fast for the audience to see his face properly, grasping _**Christine**_ by the throat_

**Erik:**

_(with intense rage)_ Look then! Is this what you wanted to see? Glut yourself on my cursed ugliness! Look at Erik's face, the face of the voice! It was not enough to hear me – no, you had to see what I looked like! I am a kind of Don Juan, don't you think/ and whenever a woman has seen my face she belongs to me forever!

**Christine:**

_(pleading) _I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, I just – have mercy!

**Erik:**

Ah, I frighten you, don't I? Perhaps you think I wear another mask beneath this one? Tear it off then, as you did the other – I insist!

**Erik**_ wrenches _**Christine's**_ hands up to his face_

**Christine:**

No, stop, please!

**Erik:**

_(frantically) _Look! Know that I am built up of death from head to foot. It is a corpse that loves you Christine, a corpse! And I will never, never leave you. Look – I cry now, I am crying for you Christine, you who have torn away my mask and now can never be free again! Why would you come back to see me, when my own father would never see me and my own mother made me a present of a mask so that she wouldn't have to!

**Erik **_dissolves onto the floor with sobs, then crawls away from the light that is now centred on Christine. She turns as she hears chords from Don Juan)_

**Christine:**

Erik, show me your face? I swear you are the most unhappy and sublime of men, and the only shiver I will feel in your presence will be because of the splendour of your genius.

**Erik:**

Oh, Christine. . .

* * *

'I don't think the rain is going to stop any time soon,' Erik commented from somewhere above Christine. They were sitting together under the yew, his arms wrapped protectively round her shoulders, letting her lean in against his warm and solid chest while they gazed out at the dripping world beyond.

'I don't think I mind that too much,' Christine replied, snuggling deeper into his embrace. 'I like the rain.'

Erik bent down and kissed the top of her hair lightly. 'Yes, but if we stay out here too long, we'll get pneumonia. Besides, I think Daroga's getting bored.' The dog wagged his tail slightly as if to say _I agree with him_.

'What do you suggest then?' Christine asked coyly. 'There's no way any cab will be round here at this time of day, and I live to far away to run. Like I said, I prefer it here.'

'Ah, but Christine, I only live 5 streets away. We could run there, couldn't we?' he asked innocently. 'You'd have to stay for a while, though; this rain isn't going to stop.' He grinned suggestively, pulling Christine in for a close hug, and breathing enticingly down her neck. For the second time in as many hours, the writer's pulse jumped at the contact. Maybe his offer wasn't so bad after all.

'We'll go on the count of three,' Erik instructed, hovering on the border of the yew's massive shadow. 'One, two, three!'

They raced out together, laughing at themselves, Daroga barking and bounding along beside. Erik steered Christine with a strong hand clasped firmly but gently around her arm, leading her across deserted roads and tree lined avenues that offered no relief from the downpour. In the end they stopped running, because they were now too wet to retain any more moisture, and Erik finally led his guest down a flight of stairs into a sunken courtyard.

'You live in a cellar?' Christine asked in intrigue, studying a set of mirrors that must have something to do with letting light into Erik's apartment – she had seen it on _The Mummy._

'It's very useful at times,' Erik said. 'Not door-to-door salesmen.' His key clicked in the lock, and the simple door swung inwards to reveal a lightly painted hallway.

He grinned slyly at her. 'Is that all? Come with me.' He took her lightly by the hand and led her into a large bedroom with a four-poster bed draped with silvery hangings. Christine tensed slightly, but where they were really going was a huge walk-in wardrobe. 'Find anything you want in here,' he said. 'I'll get it back later. If you want a shower, the bathroom's through that door. Any problems, don't hesitate to ask.' With a wink he departed, taking a plain black shirt and some jeans with him.

Christine took great care in peeling off the wet and sticky clothes, shivering at the clammy feel left behind. She slipped into the shower, grateful for the hot water. When she emerged fifteen minutes later, feeling cleaner, drier, and cosier than she had done all afternoon, she found Erik at work in the small kitchen. Whatever he was cooking smelled delicious. She came up behind him to look over his shoulder.

Without warning she was swept up into a melting kiss, Erik's lips pressed against hers as he held her close with one well muscled arm. She responded and ran her fingers through his still wet hair and closing her eyes with enjoyment. He let go, still tantalising her, letting his breath remind her of what he tasted like. She wanted him again, but Erik teasingly withdrew to run a critical eye over what she was wearing. He raised a dark eyebrow.

'You know, Christine, you look quite sexy in my clothes. I should get you soaked more often.' He smiled devilishly and changed the topic before she could blush or react in any way. 'Unfortunately the only thing I can make is omelettes. Is that okay?'



'Mmm.' Christine wasn't really listening. She liked the way Erik's dark hair bounced in ringlets when it was wet, and was too busy running her hands through them to notice much else. Her other hand was grasped around his chest, feeling its way around slowly as she looked over his shoulder to watch him cook.

'That's kind of distracting, Christine,' he said. She pouted, making him laugh. 'But if it makes you happy, I suppose I could live with it.' He leaned into Christine and pecked her lightly on the forehead.

'I wouldn't want to be distracting,' she replied. 'Anyway, I'd better ring Meg and tell her where I am.' Knowing Meg, she would be more ecstatic than worried, especially since she had been watching when Erik had asked her out for coffee. Erik told her to use his house phone because there was no signal in the apartment.

There was an endless torrent of screaming gushing down the phone when Christine told her flat-mate where she was. 'Jesus, Meg,' she muttered. 'What did we say about decibels?'

'What, oh sorry,' Meg quickly apologised, 'but it's just so exciting! Have you seen him naked yet?'Christine rolled her eyes. 'No.' Meg sounded disappointed, but not everyone was as fast at snatching up men as her. 'I'm going to go now, I'll see you tomorrow.'

'See you – tell me EVERYTHING.'

'If you learn your lines maybe I will,' Christine teased. 'Bye-bye.' Her only answer was another squeal.

The writer busied herself with rummaging through Erik's music collection. She was impressed when she found a CD of the 2004 Phantom movie. He sidled over guiltily and told her he had only bought it because she was writing a play about it. It touched her and she smiled shyly.

He was staring at her again, with those intense, deep eyes that took in every strand of hair, every fleck of colour in her own irises. He was drinking in the sight of her, curious and wanting to know more. And she did the same, wanting to feel again the taste of his skin in her mouth, slide her hands across the hardened muscles of his stomach. His hair had felt so soft, she wanted to run her hands through it and feel the silky smoothness of it. His scent was fresh and intoxicating; the gulf between their two longing bodies miniscule.

Suddenly they were no longer apart, but pressing against each other as if they couldn't get close enough, heat pulsing like sparks between them. Erik's broad hands caught Christine in the small of her back, massaging and pulling her flush against himself, his other hand roving almost desperately over her stomach, her breasts, her throat. Christine responded, arching into him as his hands traced a fine line between her shoulder blades, caressing her hair out of the way. She dissolved into his arms, arousal slighting all voluntary movement. She just wanted him. He couldn't be close enough to her quivering flesh. She explored his throat with her lips and tongue, the sweat from the kitchen rolling into her mouth to make the desire so strong it hurt. And he bent his head, dipping his mouth to embrace the base of her neck, felt the lustful rhythm drumming just beneath the pale and sweet-smelling skin. He came hard against her, gripping even tighter, but just as softly. Her leg stroked the outside of his as it slowly, tantalisingly came up to hook over his hip. She moaned as his teeth accidentally caught in her skin, his hand reaching for and squeezing her calf, her thigh. Christine was on fire, all control lost to this dark-haired man she barely even knew. And she didn't care. Her back was pressed against the wall with him filling every inch of her world, and she longed for more.

Her hands silked beneath his black shirt, feeling the liquid flexing of muscles beneath his bare skin. This was new, and she explored his brazen warmth, gradually moving further up his torso, bringing them even closer. His breath was hot on her skin, cooling perspiration and sending electric chills coursing through every nerve.

Suddenly it all stopped. His lips withdrew from her body and hung in the air, panting, shivering desperately with barely controlled passion. His eyes roved over her face, pain and regret etched in 

every glance. He wanted her like she lusted for him, but something held him back. And there was that hand again on her wrist, halting, controlling, cold against Christine's blushing flesh.

Their breath mingled as, barely inches apart, they held their self-control intact. So close. So close, and yet that chasm had opened between them again.

'What is it?' Christine whispered, the longing undisguised in her features. Erik brought his hand up and stroked her cheek.

'You must never do that,' he sighed in an even voice jarringly filled with emotion.

'Shh.' He pressed a finger tenderly against her lips, and with a quick kiss, he was gone away, leaving a space before Christine that was cold and frightening, like being on the edge of a cliff in the dark. She felt slighted, confused. What had she done wrong? Daroga, who had up to now been exploring this new territory, came and lay his head comfortingly on her lap as she sat on the sofa, knowing his mistress well enough to know when she needed a good, old-fashioned, doggy kiss. She smiled slightly as she washed the slobber off her cheek, but it was no substitute for _him_.

A hand squeezed her gently on the shoulder.

'I'm sorry,' Erik said genuinely. 'I'm just. . .not ready for that yet.' His voice was choked with something unwilling, a hidden torment. Christine wished he would share it with her. He had seemed pretty ready. 'Let's just take things slow, okay?' she nodded and cuddled up against him. The moment of mad passion had passed, and now she was grateful just for his comfortable weight, his arm around her shoulders. 'I burned the omelettes,' he informed her, 'we'll have to get a pizza or something.'

Several hours and one empty pizza box later, Christine woke up. They had both dozed off against the sofa, and she lay entwined with him and Daroga sneakily placed in the middle to make the best of the warmth. The dog snored comfortably on his back, paws in the air; it made her smile.

'Daft mongrel,' she murmured fondly, rising slightly. There was a crick in her neck. The lights in Erik's underground apartment had been left on, unchanged, but they appeared drowsy, and she guessed it must be near midnight at least.

Erik's head rolled slightly when she moved. He was completely asleep, and looking so serene it was intoxicating. Erik's face was like that of an angel, with all cares of life washed away, at least for the moment. His collar had shifted slightly, exposing a thin trace of a white scar at the base of his neck. Christine's curiosity was instantly aroused. Was this why he refused to let her close? A scar?

With a quick glance at his sleeping face, Christine undid the buttons on his shirt, fumbling in her anxiety, her heart pounding somewhere near her throat. His shirt fell open. She gasped.

'Oh my God.' There, blazoned on the chest of this perfect being, was a jagged mar of abused flesh, crisscrossed with white lines and pink scar tissue, grotesquely stretched across muscle and bone. The skin was ridged and contorted like the bark of some ancient and tortured tree, withered like an overripe fruit shrinking away from the sun.

Erik was stirring. Christine froze, knowing she didn't have enough time to make it seem like nothing happened. What would happen now? She let go of a breath without realising she had been holding it. His eyes opened dreadfully slowly. She waited, rooted to the spot with inexplicable terror.

'Christine?' Erik said blearily, smiling. She dropped her eyes in shame and he looked at her quizzically before realisation dawned. One hand shot to his shirt, the buttons undone, and he stared at her in incredulity, pain and horror written into his face. 'Why?' he managed to choke.

'Erik, I'm sorry,' Christine started, 'I don't know what happened – I –'



'Sorry!?' he exploded. 'SORRY!? Do you even know what you've done? Why couldn't you just leave it alone? No, you had to go and pry, even when I told you shouldn't. What's wrong Christine? Scared of me? And why shouldn't you be? I am a monster after all. A hideous, contorted monster!' The self-loathing in that remark wrenched at Christine's soul. Why hadn't she been able to leave him alone; to trust Erik to show her in his own time what his secret was? She was an idiot, and now they were both paying for her stupidity. 'Now that you've seen already, it can't hurt you any more to see its entirety!' he bellowed. The shirt was ripped open like it was on fire, and Christine gasped again, wincing with the pain that it must have caused when it was formed.

It looked like a burn. The scar extended all over Erik's right side, down and over his ribs and smothering his sublime skin all across his well muscled back with horrific white lines and torn-looking, livid scars. Tears were forming in Christine's eyes now, her throat clogged with something sharp and painful. She would not cry, she would not cry!

'Erik,' she pleaded, 'I'm so sorry.'

He let loose a derisive 'Ha!' and stormed away into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him and leaving Christine standing like a lone birch in the aftermath of a hurricane. She swayed slightly and sank to her knees, silent tears coursing down her cheeks. The demon in her throat throbbed gratingly as she held in sobs that wracked her shoulders. Why? Why had she done such a stupid thing?

Images coursed through the writer's mind as fresh and sharp as frost on a clear morning. The first night, when she looked up at him from lying in the middle of the road, his brow furrowed and perplexed; seeing him then in the theatre, looking for _her;_ looking into his eyes for the first time and seeing an entire unexplored world; the jolt as her stomach had flipped over when she saw him again in the graveyard, a slight breeze playing with the wisps of hair about his face; the feel of his arms wrapped around her as if to bar out the whole world; and the painful pleasure she had felt just hours before, when she almost came for him, and he was exploring her every inch as if he would die without the contact. Christine knew it instinctively: in the brief few days of Erik's company, she had fallen irreparably and inexplicably for him. It made the pain inside all the worse. What should she do now? Leave quietly and risk never seeing him again, or stay and face his anger when he re-emerged from his room? The agonising twist to her insides when she remembered the terrible anguish shadowed on his face decided it. She would stay, no matter how long it took.

To busy herself she tidied away the pizza box and wine bottle Erik had uncorked earlier, and washed away the remains of charcoaled egg from the frying pan. When Erik opened his door, she was sitting nervously in a corner with Daroga. The dog slunk away, remembering the man's previous fury. Christine rose and looked uneasily at him.

'You're still here,' he murmured with disbelief, his eyes lighting up slightly with hope. Christine nodded dumbly. He hadn't put another shirt on, so the scar was still there for the world to see, leering and mocking them both. Her stomach corkscrewed with guilt and numb pain. She loved this man, whose only imperfection she could see was the result of some unfortunate accident, and the torture it caused him, though the physical pain must have dissipated long ago. 'Why?' he asked, the silence as thick as sea fog.

'I don't know,' she whispered weakly. She glanced away, trembling. Erik suddenly forgot everything apart from that frail woman standing in the corner of his house, so beautiful and so unlike her usual strong self it scared him. He wanted to go to her, cross the insubstantial space between them and hold her close. But not until he knew why she had stayed. Because she didn't care about his disfigurement? He dared hope so. So many others had left him abandoned after they found out that he had stopped trying to find someone. He would never forget though how this one had dived in front of a car to save the life of her dog, or danced around a stage playing all the characters at once. She held him in a vice-like grip of emotions without even knowing it, which was why he had to know.

'You've tidied up,' he remarked with surprise. Christine nodded again, not trusting herself to speak. Still she refused to look in his direction, choosing to stare balefully instead at the carpet. The silence stretched unendingly between them.



'Christine?' Erik asked finally, fearfully. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that.' He licked his lips nervously. 'It's just –' he gave up in frustration, willing her to say something, anything, rather than just stand there mutely.

'You thought I would leave,' she finished for him quietly, as though the very thought of it caused her physical pain. 'Did you really think I would?' Now she looked at him. Stared straight into his eyes with challenge, with such pain that all doubts melted, crumbled in Erik's mind. She would never leave him. How could he have ever thought it?

Without even realising he strode across the room towards her, bypassed the couch as if it were nothing, and grasped her in his bare arms before she could topple. She had looked so fragile, and now she buried her face into his broad chest, sobbing silently as he held her. But he didn't mind the tears. His pain was hers now, and the salty water leached all troubles away as they sank to the floor in each other's arms, holding tightly onto the other and nothing more. Erik's chin rested on her dark hair, his arms protecting her from all harm the world could do her.

'I'm sorry, Erik,' she whispered at last. He clasped her closer, saying without words that there was no place for apologies.

'Oh Christine, my Christine,' he murmured into her soft hair.


	5. When We've Said Goodbye

**Chapter 5: When We've Said Goodbye**

This is a very loooooong chapter, still with more to say, and so this has been turned into a two-parter. There is a lot of fluff at the beginning, so you are warned! I'm not very used to writing that sort of stuff, so be kind!

This chapter, and most of the chapters after, will be for Angel's Grace, who WILL kill me if I don't update these things. By the way, if you like Beauty and the Beast, go read her fic - so far it's brilliant and more is on the way!

I have some music reccommendations! Josh Groban, Lifehouse, Fields Of Gold by Sting, and of course, Phantom, are all good to listen to when reading this.

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Erik woke slowly with Christine in his arms, feeling very comfortable. _She didn't run away. _He smiled softly, noting with a flutter of his heart how she lay her head against the burn on his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. Christine's dark hair, still slightly damp from the previous night's rain, curled and cascaded around her face in silky locks that yielded intriguingly to his touch. Her face stood in gentle relief against his own livid flesh. An angel next to a monster; a beauty next to a beast. How could he have been so lucky?

They lay together on the bed, he having at some point woken and taken her to where they could both be more comfortable. Sun was streaming golden in through cracks in the blinds and highlighting strands of copper and chestnut among the darker brown in her hair.

'What are you doing?' Christine mumbled, waking in a very contented mood.

'Playing with your hair,' Erik replied, letting the soft bangs fall through his fingers. 'Do you want me to stop?'

She considered. 'Nope,' she said, snuggling against him.

'Good, because I wasn't going to anyway.' He kissed her forehead gently.

'What time is it?' Christine gasped and bolted upright when she read the clock display on Erik's bedside table. Ten past nine? She had to be at the theatre in twenty minutes. This was not good.

Her clothes were draped over the radiator in Erik's bathroom where she had put them the night before. They were completely dry now, if a little bit stiff, as quickly dried clothes tend to get after being left in the rain. Erik had lazily followed her to the door and now stood with his head cocked slightly to the side, leaning against the door frame with a smile playing about his lips.

'What?' Christine demanded, seeing his expression.

'Nothing.' He shook his head. 'I just think you look beautiful.'

She froze, and coloured to such a bright pink that it almost looked like she had overdone it on blusher. All of her clothes had fallen to the floor and she hurriedly picked them up, muttering how late and how dead she was going to be. It only made Erik's smile broaden into a chuckle.

'You're not used to this, are you?' he asked.

'Are you?' she asked right back. It was a fair point, which Erik conceded.

'Is your boss really going to kill you if you're just five minute late?' he mused.

'You don't know Felix.'

He laughed again, striding over to wrap her in a soft hug, inhaling her sweet scent, like apples, as he did so. 'I tell you what,' he suggested as he lifted Christine's chin to meet his eyes. 'You stay here and get changed, even though I think you look far better in _my _clothes, and I will go and call you a taxi.' He grinned. 'I'll have to make you breakfast another time.'

Christine pretended to think about it. 'Deal.'

Their lips met with a lovers' gentleness as they stood with Christine entwined in Erik's arms. Her eyes closed as she melted into his bare warmth, the scarred side slightly more heated than the other, as if the abused tissue was still trying to remove the hotness of the burn that caused it. She could feel his smirk spreading as he started planting small kisses along her jaw line, down the throbbing pulse on her neck. He made her heart beat so much faster. A small moan escaped her lips as he licked a sensitive area near her collarbone.

'You're enjoying this,' she accused as he brought his lips back up to press against hers once more.

'Savouring it,' he replied softly, leaning in again.

Christine drew away. 'Why? Because of this?' she asked earnestly, placing a hand on the field of scars. A quivering silence hung in the air between them now, separating them. Their eyes were locked.

Christine felt a sliver of apprehension tremor through her as she found herself trapped in the intense gaze of his green irises. But what kind of green? So close up she could see the pupil lined with fiery hazel, fading to more of an oak green with flecks of blue and grey, and rimmed with a colour like pine trees in winter. They held such brooding emotion, such intelligence, that she felt naked and nervous beneath them. Slowly, deliberately, Erik took hold of her hand, brushing his thumb along her knuckles.

'It's happened before,' he murmured. Their eyes broke contact as he bent down to press his lips to her fingers.

She sighed. 'Two things, okay? First of all, this is nothing. When I think of you, I don't see this –' she traced one of the fine white lines with a finger, momentarily engrossed by its pattern. 'I fell for – well, your face first, but that doesn't count – you took the time and had the tenacity to find out about some random woman who you almost ran over.' She laughed. 'This is nothing.'

'And number two?' Erik asked carefully, twining his fingers in Christine's hair. She was still running her fingers over the right side of his chest, following the zagging lines.

'I'm an artist,' she informed him. 'Obsessed with light and shade and their never ending dance. These scars are entrancing. Beautiful – not ugly.'

'You mean that?' Erik asked, daring to believe that this time things would be different. In answer, still clasping his hand tight, Christine looked up and kissed him again, long and deep. He responded, crushing her lips against his as their tongues wrapped around each other and the distance between them grew infinitesimal. They only came up for air when Christine, remembering why she had originally gotten out of Erik's bed in the first place, realised how much time had passed.

'Shit!' she hissed, horrified.

Erik laughed. 'I'll call that taxi shall I?'

Ten minutes later, dressed, stressed, and holding Daroga on his leash (the Alsatian in question had been laughingly reprimanded for sleeping on his back on the sofa), Christine was leaving Erik's below-ground apartment. She absolutely refused to think of it as a cellar. Or a lair. He pulled her in for a swift kiss before she could say goodbye.

'I hate that word,' he whispered to her. 'You still owe me that coffee, by the way.'

'We might have to remedy that,' she replied coyly.

'Ah, but where would we go?' he deliberated.

'The Häagen Dazs restaurant in Leicester Square,' she answered decisively. It was one of her favourite places to dine out in London, and it wasn't far from the theatre. 'I should be finished by seven.'

'So it's a date?' he enquired with a grin. She nodded. 'Then it is only farewell. _Au revoir, Cherie._'

The cab driver, obviously impatient and oblivious to the blossomings of romance, beeped loudly on the horn to tell her to_ get a move on. _There was a train coming into Waterloo that he could be waiting for. If they hadn't closed it again. Damn terrorists.

Privately hoping that Felix was ill or had slept in, and knowing it would never happen, Christine alighted from the taxi with trepidation. She grumbled silently at the exorbitant amount she had to pay for Daroga, because he was a dog, and, to retaliate, she spent five long minutes counting out the change in her purse to pay the fee. The increasingly impatient grunts and sighs coming from the fidgeting cabby were very satisfying indeed. Finally she handed him the money with a cold smile and he drove off rather quickly, even though he had already missed the train by a long way.

An unusual crowd was gathered around the entrance to the theatre. It was too early for the doors to be open to anyone but the staff, but these people didn't even seem to be trying to get in – they were more. . .hovering. With a cold sweep of dread Christine recognised the pattern of the swarm.

'Journalists,' she breathed, and abruptly about-turned, dragging Daroga with her. But too late. She had been spotted.

'Miss Drew! Miss Drew!' the clamoured after her. She ignored them, heading to the inconspicuous and seldom used side entrance. It was only meant for cleaners and very few people had a key. Luckily, Christine was one of them.

'Miss Drew!' Damn. They had caught up.

'What do you want?' she asked tiredly. 'I'm very busy today.' Outwardly, her face was a facade of calm; inside, anger was boiling red hot and thick. Somehow the paparazzi had got wind of the new production, despite the fact that when they auditioned, all of the potentials had signed a contract of secrecy, and all the stagehands and backstage crew were trustworthy. The new _Phantom _was going to be kept a secret until they were sure of everything – until the date was set for Opening Night, when tickets would go on sale.

And sure enough. . .

'Miss Drew, James Steinbeck, _Daily Star. _With this new production, do you hope to unseat Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber as the name most associated with _Phantom_?'

Swallowing back the disgust at having her personal space invaded and having a recorder shoved in her face, Christine shortly retorted that she didn't write musicals. The fact that there was a huge German Shepherd growling on the end of a leash didn't seem to perturb them at all.

Other questions followed in rapid quick-fire: 'What new aspect do you hope to bring to the story of the _Phantom?' _'Is there any connection between your Christian name and your reasons for writing _Phantom_?' 'What is your response to those who say _Phantom _is overrated and overdone?' The swell of voices closing in was going to drive her insane, she could feel it.

'QUIET!' she bellowed before even being aware of the decision to shout. The buzzing fell quiet at once as the ten or so vultures crowded in for their scoop. Obviously not that big a one, or there would be more of them to contend with. That was something at least. 'I'm not saying anything to you, about anything. I don't know why you're all hounding me about a new production, because nothing has been decided, and I have no idea where you got _Phantom_ from. So, no comment.'

'We have it from a reliable source, Miss Drew, that this theatre plans to produce a new version of _Phantom_ and that casting has already taken place for the roles.' Steinbeck again.

'Who said this?' Christine asked with silky ice, staring the short man down so he flushed right to the roots of his dirty blonde curls. She was going to throttle the owner of whoever's name came out of his mouth.

'That's confidential.'

'Really?' she checked in the same voice, wondering how reporters could both have a code of confidentiality and invade the private lives of countless celebrities with very few scruples whatsoever. She held them in very low esteem sometimes.

'What is your view on the rumour that the new production – whatever it is – is cursed?' came a new voice, and Christine's glare snapped up from Steinbeck, giving him temporary relief.

'What do you mean?' Christine asked the slight, blonde woman who was taking everything in with rapid shorthand.

'There have been rumours of a curse – you know, after the death of that stagehand a few weeks ago.'

'I never heard of this curse, but I'm very busy,' Christine said shortly, slipping in through the door before the crowd could press in any further. The snap of the lock behind her as the door shut was comforting. She allowed herself a moment to regain composure before going to find Felix. This wasn't supposed to have happened.

The manager was in his office, looking harassed. One phone was in his hand and the other was burring slightly in its holder, while Felix growled into the receiver, his usually non-existent American accent extremely pronounced. He must be _very _angry, and that didn't happen very often. Any thought Christine had of an easy day in a relaxed atmosphere evaporated in an instant.

'You tell all of them that if they so much as print a word, I'm gonna sue them for every penny they've got!' he shouted. A pause as he listened. 'They've no right to publish rumours! Tell them that we will issue an official statement for them to use as and when _we _feel like it. Until then, I don't want to catch a sniff of a story anywhere. Got it?' he slammed the phone into its holder as the lawyer on the other end promised to do as he was told.

Christine tried to sneak away, knowing what his reaction to the dog would be, but he had spotted her.

'Where d'ya think you're going?' he demanded.

'The window. I want to see of the journalists are still there,' she said, thinking on her feet.

'They'll be there for ages,' he said impatiently. 'Best way to deal with them is to just ignore them. Leave the dog in the back to make sure they don't get in that way, will ya? We've got work to do.' Christine, surprised at having gotten away so lightly, numbly did as she was told. Daroga hated being left on his own _outside _of all places, but, she reflected, at least his barking would scare off intruders.

There was a lot to get through that day. Rehearsals couldn't start until the logistics were out of the way. Christine needed to speak to Bilis Reynolds, the theatre's resident musical genius, to settle on the score for the play. The head of the orchestra had poured over the script and come up with a few samples. The main characters had their own theme, and each scene had an undercurrent of music playing through. Christine never did this herself because she didn't know the first thing about music. The thing she liked most about Bilis was that he could take her ridiculously poetic descriptions and transform them into a flurry of notes and chords that depicted exactly what she was trying to. They were on the same wavelength.

She listened closely to Christine's theme, liking it immensely. 'That's cool,' she said. 'Do we have the music for _Faust _yet?'

'It came this morning in the post, if you want to listen,' Bilis replied in his refined Queen's English. Christine personally thought he was the only man who could get away with wearing a dark pinstripe suit and silk cravat from the 1940s. It somehow fitted his sticklike frame.

He put the new CD in the player and they listened in silence to the trilling, lilting sounds of _Faust_. 'Could we have undercurrents of the Margarita role playing through Christine's music?' Christine asked when it was finished. 'Not that much, but just to get some continuity.'

'Do you know what, my dear? I was just about to suggest the very same thing,' Bilis smiled back.

'See? Same wavelength,' she concluded. 'If you could please do that then, because you're brilliant. The rest – perfect, as usual. You've taken a weight off my mind.'

'I'm glad to be of help,' came the gracious reply.

Next, Christine had to see Mrs Grey, the seamstress who made all the costumes. She had once worked in films, but had turned to theatre after many a director decided her designs were too fanciful and not real enough. She had been given brief sketches of costume designs, but Christine, 

knowing how Mrs Grey liked her creativity, had given the old widow a free rein, knowing she would come up with something spectacular.

Mrs Grey's workroom was more like a thrift fabric shop than anything else. Spare rolls of silk, cotton, nylon, polyester, netting and materials that Christine didn't even know the name of littered each surface and hung from the ceiling, while Mrs Grey's peculiar taste in music (death metal for a fifty-four year old is pretty peculiar) pounded out from a dusty CD player in the corner. People either loved or loathed this corner of the theatre.

Sure enough, on the wall above Mrs Grey's primary workbench were Christine's sketches, redone with more detail and notes on materials and styles. She also noticed other drawings; minor characters who would take part in the masquerade scene and the extras in _Faust _and around the stage.

'Christine, darling! Come in, come in. You are going to love what I have come up with!' Mrs Grey, exuberant as always, turned round to see the young writer entering her workroom. She was a short, squat woman with frizzy greying hair and a personality to match it. Bonkers was a way to aptly describe her, and it was amazing that cool, collected Christine and mad Mrs Grey were two of the best of friends.

'Christine, you make me so happy, you now that, right?'

'Why's that Miranda?' Christine asked.

'Nobody has given me such a challenge in a long while. Your ideas are just exquisite, but I, of course, took them further.'

'Of course,' the younger woman conceded. 'So, what've you got for me?'

With a delighted yell Mrs Grey leaped out of her chair and rummaged around in some drawers, pulling out swathes of samples and a pile of sketches. 'I basically followed your ideas for the main characters, so, there is nothing so new there,' she explained while Christine gazed in wonder at the fabrics. 'But for the masquerade – oh! I have hardly slept in three weeks thinking about it! I was thinking to have them all in similar colours, like they are in the movie, but, not silver and black – bold blues and greens and yellows, so that when we see the two dominoes we can pick them out easily, and then when Red Death enters, all eyes will turn to him!'

'You're very happy aren't you?' Christine observed with dry amusement.

'Brilliantly so, Tina. Brilliantly so,' replied the old woman merrily. She went back to work, showing that meeting was over.

Just beyond the left wing of the stage, she bumped into someone she didn't expect – and someone she didn't want – to see.

'Robert!' she exclaimed. 'What are you doing here? You don't have to be until next week.' She could smell his cologne, the same as it always has been, and the sight of her old boyfriend set her heart racing, but not in a good way.

In the final year college, they had gone out. He had been charming and passionate and friendly, and at first everything had been great. They had had a lot of fun. Then things had started getting serious; they had moved into the same flat, and, almost imperceptibly, he had started worming his way into every part of her life. He called her after every class when he couldn't see her, and never let her go anywhere without him. Christine began to realise that she didn't feel that deeply for him, and what she had once classed as love was just a teenage infatuation. Robert wouldn't let her breathe. So she had dumped him, severing all connection in a move to London. She had never looked back. Until now.

'I came to see you,' Robert said. 'I haven't had a chance to talk to you yet.'

Christine smiled nervously. He was acting as though they hadn't been apart for over six years. He was far too close. 'You might have to wait a little longer; I'm busy at the minute.'

'I could help,' he suggested.

'I doubt it.' She walked off towards Felix's office because she needed to do a budget check before anything else happened. Robert followed.

'It's almost like you're avoiding me,' he said, grabbing hold of her elbow. 'You're not, are you?'

'I've been busy,' she replied distractedly.

'I tried to talk to you after the audition, you know, maybe ask you out for a coffee – but you just disappeared. And who was that bloke I saw you talking to? He didn't look like one of the staff.'

Christine stiffened, trying to conceal the jolt of panic that churned in her stomach even as heat rushed to her cheeks at the memory of the previous night. Another of Robert's flaws: he was insanely paranoid of everyone.

'Nobody,' she choked as casually as possible. Robert noticed.

'Christine, don't worry. I know before I could be a bit. . .domineering, but I've changed. Honestly I have, ask anyone.' He looked at her tenderly and stroked the left side of her cheek. It burned under his touch. His blue eyes were nothing to the ones she had been staring at so avidly just a few hours ago. 'I've missed you,' he murmured.

He was leaning in, pulling her closer. No. 'And I've moved on,' she told him slowly, as if to soften the blow it would cause. 'I'm sorry, Robert. We were just. . .never right for each other.' She moved away, hoping that he wouldn't follow a second time. He did.

'Then why was I cast?' he demanded.

'Because I don't let personal issues cloud my judgement. You were good for the role,' she replied, not stopping. 'Now I really have to go. If you want something to do, learn your lines, or go and get measured for your outfits.' She ducked quickly into the ladies' toilets before he could reply, and heaved a sigh of relief. She had hoped he had gotten over her. Obviously not. She could see things getting a lot worse.

But what about Erik? She had told Robert he was nobody, but how could nobody inspire such a mix of feelings in her, so that her stomach churned under their weight and she felt like she would from dizziness? She had spent the night at his house, curled and wrapped tight in his warm embrace. She knew his deepest secret. What were they now? Lovers? It was confusing, especially when she remembered the feel of his body pressing flush against hers, the taste of his lips. Man, she had it bad. Her insides gave an excited little jolt at the thought of seeing him again.

One thing was for certain, she would have to keep Robert away from him.

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Has anyone noticed that all of the chapter titles are obscure lyrics from the musical? I just wanted to say that...please review, it makes me happy!


	6. No Thoughts Within Her Head

Ages, ages, ages! It's been so long since I've updated this! For everyone with this on a story alert you must have forgotten what it's all about! I'm so sorry guys, I can only plead an atrocious workload in my defense. This chapter is dedicated to Angel's Grace again in apology for the long delay.

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It was so hard not to watch the clock, not to count down second by second until that wonderful time when Christine could leave the theatre and be whisked away by the guy whom she hadn't stopped thinking about all day. She had taken Daroga home during a lull in journalists and had successfully avoided Robert for the entire afternoon. Apart from going really slowly, her day wasn't that bad. Felix had calmed down too, which meant the budget had been sorted out, and all that remained preparation-wise was to talk to the prop master and lighting crew. This would be a production nobody would forget in a hurry.

It was five to seven, and every tick of the clock on the wall made her heart beat a little harder, and in retribution time dragged ever slower. Christine was not a patient woman, though, and eventually she gave up and got her coat. How much work could she get done by staring at time anyway? If Erik wasn't outside yet, then she would simply wait outside and let certain memories take her mind off the chilly evening air.

Something stepped out of the shadows behind her as she left the theatre. It was silent enough that she felt more than heard it. She span round, pulse tripping through her veins, ready to defend herself.

'Did I scare you?' Erik asked in a tone somewhere between concern and humour.

Christine waited a moment to get her breathing back under control. Erik's proximity was not helping matters in that department. 'More startled,' she replied archly. 'How long have you been lurking there?'

'I might have to punish you for that,' he murmured, briefly closing his mouth over hers. 'I do not lurk. You just didn't see me.' He grinned that devilish grin of his. 'You must have had some pretty occupying thoughts in that pretty head of yours not to notice.'

'Fairly occupying, yes,' Christine replied. She moved closer to him, wrapping her arms around the inside of his black coat. 'But I still say you were lurking.'

Something akin to condescending irritation flicked across Erik's face quickly followed by a cunning smirk that Christine found suddenly worrying. His arms snaked her waist tight enough that she was pressed completely against him, once again only inches from those eyes. She yelped suddenly as Erik's fingers found her ribs, tickling as they pressed against her flesh. She squirmed and wriggled, but he was annoyingly strong.

'Ah! Stop, stop!' she gasped finally, the pressure on her ribs faded into a comfortable grip. She was panting slightly.

'I told you I would have to punish you,' Erik said into the skin of her neck. She could feel the smile playing there as he kissed her jugular.

'Please tell me you're ticklish so I can have retribution,' Christine said with mock irritation.

'Nope, sorry, you'll have to find some other way.'

'I'll look forward to that.'

'I'm sure you will,' he teased. 'But dinner first. Häagen Daas, am I right?' She nodded as he took her hand in his, and together they strolled away towards Leicester Square.

They sat in a quiet corner of the restaurant, upstairs and secluded from everyone by the shadowy mood of the interior.

'So, you're an interpreter?' Christine asked.

'Yes I am,' Erik replied with a grin.

'Tell me about it.'

'It's not that interesting, really. I go along with police officers to translate things for them if they want to interview someone, or in an interrogation. Or to show important foreigners around.' He shrugged.

'Which is what you were doing when you nearly ran me over,' Christine supplied with a chuckle, enjoying the sheepish look crossing his face. She never got tired of watching his expression change. 'So what languages do you speak?'

'French, Russian, Arabic, Swahili, Spanish, and I'm currently engaged in learning Mandarin.'

Christine paused. 'That's a lot. You must be very good – I'd get them all confused.'

'I am very good,' he muttered suggestively, earning a demure roll of the eyes. 'What about you, do you know any other languages?'

'_Je parle un petit peu de français – ou, je comprends ça_.' She smirked slightly at the surprised look on his face. This was fun. She slid slightly closer to him along the couch at which their table stood and sipped delicately at her drink.

'_Ton accent est très bien_,' he replied gently once he had settled her more comfortably against him. Hearing his voice ring out the musical chords of _la langue d'amour_ was even better than hearing him speak in English, Christine decided – and that was hard to top.

'Now it's your turn.' He was playing with her hair again.

'What?'

'How did you become a writer?'

'Oh.' A pause. 'I've always written stuff – I used to sit at the back of the class and scribble stuff; poetry, prose, anything I felt like. It's a wonder I learned anything.' Erik decided at that point that he liked the misty look in Christine's eyes when she was remembering fond things. Her lips were hanging partly open in a smile, but curiosity allowed him to resist the urge to press them to his own. 'Then I went to uni and studied anthropology, against my parents' wishes, and met Meg. She was doing drama. She asked me to write a script for her once though I'd never done it before, and her drama group ended up performing it.'

Conversation turned to questions with easier answers, just quick single words in answer to favourite things and tastes, each answer bringing delight to the one who asked the question. Christine found herself wanting to know every superficial detail of Erik's personality, and couldn't stop smiling as he asked her favourite colour, what kind of music she listened to, and what she wanted to be when she grew up. She responded with everything she could think of; everything except the obvious one that lingered at the back of her mind. But asking Erik where he had got his scars would probably have ruined the evening, and any faith he had building in her.

He kept asking as they walked from Leicester Square and through Chinatown, never growing bored with her answers. How could he, when they were all wonderfully cryptic or poetically worded to reveal the writer's love of life. He opened the taxi door for her before climbing in himself. Immediately her arms wrapped about his torso as though she had been doing it for a lifetime. It was very comfortable, and Erik missed it almost at once when the cab halted outside Christine's apartment. He wanted the warmth of her nested against his chest.

'I'll pay,' he said, already fishing the notes out of his pocket.

'No,' she pleaded. 'I'm perfectly able to pay for myself.' She looked insolently at him, her mouth pouting slightly. It was adorable.

'I don't care. I asked you out, so it's only polite. You didn't have to come tonight.' He stared intently, and the stubborn intent was written there so plainly for Christine to see that she gave up on the spot, but made a point not to look happy about it. There was no way this was becoming a regular thing. Erik handed the notes to the driver. 'Now wasn't that easy?' he asked Christine, pecking her on the forehead.

With a sigh she smiled and pretended to look annoyed, though that wasn't easy with the tingles jumping from the hand that held hers vaulting to her stomach and doing somersaults again. She let that hand linger for as long as possible in his as she walked up her front steps, but eventually the distance was too great and she had to let go.

Erik watched her go. 'Could you give us two minutes?' he asked the driver.

'Sure mate, I ain't goin' anywhere.' This cabby was obviously more romantic than the last one.

'Cheers.' Erik turned and bounded up the brick steps two at a time until he reached the sandstone pillared porch and Christine turning her key in the lock.

'Hello again,' she said, her voice sweeping like rich music in Erik's ears. He was wearing that debonair grin again, the irresistible one.

'Hello. How can you leave me without saying goodnight properly?' he teased, drawing her closer.

'I was waiting for you right here,' she replied. 'So, how are you going to say goodnight?'

'Like this.' In one fluid movement, Erik pulled Christine into a loose embrace and with the other hand cupped her chin and kissed her deeply. He couldn't help but grin again at the effect that had, like she was melting into him.

When they pulled apart, only with the greatest reluctance, Christine wasn't sure her legs could totally support her. And that look on his face was far too smug for her liking. Time to take a bit of control back. She snaked her arms languidly round his neck, leaving her lips to linger less than an inch from his.

'Well, goodnight then,' she said brightly, before ducking out of his arms and heading for the door, a wicked grin on her face. Erik looked suitably affronted now.

'Oi! Come back here!' He cupped her chin again. 'I'm not finished with you yet.'

'Well that's good to hear,' she teased. They stayed like that for a few seconds, completely still, until Christine sobered slightly. 'I would invite you in,' she murmured, tracing a finger along his collarbone. 'But I don't know if you're quite ready to meet Meg yet. She can be a little. . .overwhelming.'

Erik grinned. 'No need to look so apologetic, _Cherie_. I understand.' He leaned in one last time to take one sweet, long touch of her lips to savour until the next time they met. 'Goodnight then.'

Any feelings of bliss that felt like exquisite narcotics to Christine evaporated the instant she entered her drawing room. Daroga was sitting in her armchair, taken from her nannah's, Meg lounged on the chaise-longue. And Robert was perched on the couch. Suddenly she felt very glad for leaving Erik at the front door. Her ex smiled at her merrily enough.

'Ah! Here she is! We were wondering where you'd disappeared to, Chris.' From the glint in Meg's eye, Christine guessed she knew exactly where she'd been. 'We've just been reminiscing about our student days,' Robert continued.

'A bit of an all round catch-up, really,' Meg added. 'You should have told me you were going out I had simply _no idea _where you were.' Liar. Christine had left a note on the fridge, and quite a clear one at that.

She had no choice really but to join them, but she sat down feeling very uncomfortable. After a while it largely fell away though, since Robert was now being perfectly friendly and not making any allusions to anything more. Christine had forgotten how much she enjoyed his conversation. But there was no way she could be entirely comfortable in his company – there was something dark and predatory in his gaze that she didn't like at all, so before long she found herself feigning tiredness and needing to go to bed.

Tired was the last thing she felt, however. Thoughts of Erik whirled through her mind every time she closed her eyes, so that in the only defence for sleep she had was to smile inanely into her pillow.

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